


Save a Horse

by Dracoduceus



Series: Words With Benefits [9]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Accidental Exhibitionism, Accidental Voyeurism, Going undercover, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Second-Person POV, Unresolved Sexual Tension, strip club, until it's not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:53:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28922394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracoduceus/pseuds/Dracoduceus
Summary: Despite your protests, your friends drag you to a strip club. While they flock to the stage to watch that night's themed performance, you stay behind in the booth and watch the spectacle of two grown men eye-fucking each other.You haven't decided if it's worth the cover charge (and your friends trying to set you up with a lap dance), but at least the night isn't as boring as you expected it to be.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Series: Words With Benefits [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1498223
Comments: 3
Kudos: 47





	Save a Horse

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** Hanzo and Jesse must go undercover at a very high-end strip club. At least one of them has to be a stripper. Can be both. It's the hardest (hehe) mission they've ever had.
> 
> I ended up writing this in second-person because I was _inspired_ and because I’m an asshole. I also thought that it would be hilarious.

The club wasn’t the usual kind of place that you would find yourself, but your friends had insisted that you all needed to celebrate your birthday this way. To be fair, you hadn’t seen Claire in _years_ , and _everyone_ had insisted that this particular was great, was _perfect_ for your birthday celebration.

Even if you were all scattered down the bar and the only people that you could talk to were the ones immediately next to you.

Even if the thrumming bass of the music was so loud that you couldn’t hear anything without shouting.

A few hours in and far too few drinks later, Sasha managed to get a table and too many of you pile in together. It makes an already hot and sweaty bar even sweatier and gross, considering how closely you were all pressed together. You can barely even move your arms to get your drink.

Beside you, Fatima bumps her elbow into your side. “Look!” she says, as if you could see anything past her. She is craning her head toward the stage so you try to look as well but all you see is the back of her head. “It’s starting!”

“What’s starting?” you ask but suddenly find yourself more or less alone—all of your friends, including your married ones, had scooted out of the crowded booth at record speed to cluster around the stage.

It _is_ a strip club, you remind yourself with a rueful smile as the club music cuts out to a ripple of anticipation. The swirling lights dim and turn to train on the stage, hidden behind a thick black curtain.

With everyone’s attention on the stage, you find that you could better pay attention to your drink. A waiter, dressed in form-fitting slacks, a tight suit vest, and a bowtie around his neck, drifts over and flashes a smile at you. “Not gonna join?” he asks, nodding his head toward the stage. “Watch the show up close?”

You wrinkle your nose and he laughs as he begins clearing empty glasses from the table. “I’m fine over here,” you tell him as he fills his tray. “ _Someone_ needs to watch the table.”

He chuckles and nods at your drink. “Can I get you something else?”

“Whiskey,” you tell him a little sourly. He graciously doesn’t comment on the fact that your drink had very clearly been something bright and colorful. “Neat. Please.”

“After my own heart,” the waiter says with a sly smile. You would think that it was creepy except there was a wry tone to his voice like he knew exactly what you are going through. “I’ll be right back.”

You turn your attention to the stage as someone comes out to announce the act that had everyone clustered up front. If you had thought that the music was loud before, the sound of the announcer is deafening. Combined with the excited shrieks of the women around the stage, you wince.

“I know that feeling,” the waiter says, placing a rocks glass of amber liquid and a second of ice in front of you. “Forgot to ask if you wanted ice. Didn’t want to assume.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” you say ruefully as you take a sip of your drink. It was nice whiskey and you sigh.

“Got some nice stuff behind the bar,” the waiter says, leaning against the side of the booth so that he could speak with you and still look at the stage. “And I shot out my ears as a kid. Misspent youth.” He gives you such a roguish wink and a finger gun that you almost want to believe him. But then, you know that male strip clubs play on fantasies—he is most likely playing the bad boy biker. As soon as you think that, you realize that his vest and pants aren’t quite cotton, but tight-fitting pleather.

You both lapse into silence in time for the announcer to cry, “—the Samurai Cowboy, Yutaka Sato!”

Beside you, the waiter makes a rude noise. “Are you jealous, biker boy?” you ask, the liquor finally hitting you enough to untie the knot of your tongue.

“Nah,” the waiter says, a hint of some kind of drawl in the word. “I just think that literally anybody can play a cowboy better than he can.”

Translation: he was jealous. You smile into your drink. Both of you fall silent as the opening notes of a song begin to play; a moment later, everyone around the stage shriek. A part of you is happy that you aren’t the only one that winces, as apparently the loud volume is enough to hurt biker-waiter’s ears.

It’s _Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy_ , you realize, and choke on a laugh as the curtains swing dramatically open.

The man that marches on stage at least _looks_ like a cowboy, but his purposeful walk looks more military than cowboy swagger. He’s wearing dark blue jeans and a pair of worn leather chaps that look too large on him. His jeans look like they were painted on and you wonder how he could move without chafing his dick.

He’s wearing a plain button-down shirt with a tasseled vest and a cheap felt cowboy hat. You can hear the waiter beside the booth choke as the “cowboy” stops and poses as if he’s on a runway. Then his hands drift inward, cupping the gaudy belt buckle, decorated with a red and white cow skull, that was sitting low on his cut hips.

God, he wasn’t even your type but you felt your mouth running dry. Was it hot in here or was it just him? The screams of the women around the stage increase in pitch.

The man keeps his face tilted down, hiding most of it from view with the wide brim of his hat as he reaches a hand out. As if by magic, one of those horse toys, the one with the broom handle and a horse head at the top, flies through the air to land perfectly in his grip. He immediately places the shaft high on his thigh and moves his hips in such a sinful way that you find yourself drinking more of your whiskey as if that would quench your sudden thirst.

Again—he’s not your type but damn do you wish he was.

The man’s hips move as if they aren’t connected to his body; the tassels on his tight-fitting vest are almost perfectly still as he rocks and rolls his hips, sliding into such a low, wide-legged stance that it convinced you that even in such tight jeans, he could probably dip into a sideways split without breaking a sweat. Again, you hear the waiter beside you choke.

On stage, the man lifts his hand in the air, swaying it in time to the music and the rocking of his hips as if he’s bull riding. The hand in the air slowly drops to the top of his hat as if holding it in place. When the song’s famous line comes, echoed in the screams of all the gathered women, he whips his hat off and flings it into the crowd.

Beneath the hat, he’s _handsome_. Once more, you remind yourself that he’s not your type, but concede that he can still make your mouth dry. You drink more whiskey as you take in the shine of piercings in the bridge of his nose, in snakebites on his lower lip. He gives such a sultry look, that lower lip bitten in his teeth, that you feel your heart skip a beat.

When you hear the waiter wheeze beside you, you realize that the man on the stage isn’t looking at anyone but the waiter. His eyes, from this distance little dots of onyx, are trained on the waiter as he bucks his hip on the shaft of the horse toy.

Suddenly, you remember that your little nephew has a toy like it and you fear that you’ll never be able to watch him play with it without thinking of this moment: the warmth of the club, the beating of the music, the _man on stage eye-fucking the waiter standing next to you_.

The man puts the toy aside and you realize that there must be a stand invisible from where you’re sitting because the toy stands upright, staring out over the crowd with its soulless button eyes. It’s just as well because as the man spins, he reveals long, inky hair tied with a long, red and gold ribbon. From the way that the fabric caught the light, it looked like silk or something similar. Still in his wide stance and gyrating his hips lower and lower, it’s clear from the angle of his arms and elbows that he’s undoing his vest.

When he spins around, he has that cowboy swagger, rocking his hips as he walks to the edge of the stage with a hand over his head, holding an imaginary hat. With his free hand, he peeks open the edge of the vest to reveal _a fucking chest harness_ , like the kind you see in cop movies. It should have been out of place but the women all scream.

Once more, the man’s big hands— _holy shit, those are big hands_ —move to cup that gaudy belt buckle. With the vest open, you can _see_ the subtle flex of muscles even from the distance you’re sitting and you completely sympathize with the waiter who chokes and wheezes again.

It feels like you blink and the vest is off, showing off more of that toned chest and the way that the buttons stretch to hold it all in. Ultimately, it proves to be a moot point—the man _rips_ the whole damn thing off, shirt and harness, all in one go. It reveals a muscular chest, covered with a sheen of sweat that makes each muscle seem to pop even more.

Not that the man needs any help—he’s fucking built like a brick shit house, with a tattoo over his left arm from wrist to chest of crashing waves and leaping fish. Given the theme, you’d bet that it’s koi, and just over his right hip you can see a splash of color, hinting at another tattoo.

The man’s fucking hairless and built like a bodybuilder, with broad shoulders and bulging muscles that lead into a trim waist and now you begin to wonder if the waiter is having a heart attack, given how he is wheezing and choking.

You’re about to ask him if he’s alright when you notice that he’s moved his tray from being clenched across his chest to being held over his groin. Suddenly, a lot of things begin to make sense to you. Given the way that the man on stage is keeping his eyes trained on the waiter, you think that they’d been eye-fucking each other for weeks—perhaps months, years. This was likely the last nail in the coffin for one of them. Your money was on the waiter, who was breathing like he had swallowed his tongue.

“His significant other must be a lucky man,” you shout to the waiter who jumps.

Even in the dim lights of the club, you can tell that the waiter’s face is flushed and his eyes are dark. His roguish smile is now shaky. “Nah, I think he’s single.”

You chuckle. The liquor you had drunk so quickly a moment before was making your head spin; or maybe it was just the way that the man on stage was dancing, the flash of the lights on the oil coating his skin.

He’s crouching, his legs splayed wide, and as he stands up, he traces both hands up the insides of his thighs, leaning back in an amazing display of balance and coordination. The women keep screaming and you’re sure that your friends will come back with hoarse voices.

Hell, he’s still not your type but damn, you’d treasure a night with him.

“I don’t think he’ll be single for long,”

As the man on stage stands up straight again, he _fucking rips off his pants_. By some kind of costume black magic, the chaps remain firmly in place, as does that massive, gaudy, eye-catching buckle. The second tattoo that had been teased by the cut of his pants and the edge peeking over his hip was revealed as a match to the one on his arm, swirling waves and leaping fish. They were mostly hidden by the chaps, which then led the eye to his thong.

The Texas-themed thong, with a proud white star right over his junk.

That thong had to be stuffed, right?

You figure that somewhere, hounds are crying at the screams of the women, which had reached a frequency nearly too high to be heard by human ears.

The man on stage turned, making that ribbon sway, and you hear the waiter choke again. He sat down on the edge of the booth next to you, uninvited, and you are far more amused by it than you should be.

“Look at his hips,” you say, and the waiter nods dumbly. You can see a flush creeping up the back of his neck. It’s amazing to you that it feels like so much has happened in the length of a single song.

The song ends and the man freezes in a pose, his hips cocked and hips thrust forward. One hand was once more resting on an imaginary cowboy hat, the other pointed—right at the waiter. His chest was heaving, the oil—and probably sweat—making his skin shine.

The waiter cleared his throat and leaped to his feet. “I gotta go,” he said quickly, likely realizing that he should move before anybody sees his little problem and the way that he’s holding his little serving tray.

You watch, amused, as he wobbles away, moving far quicker than you expected him to.

Too soon, your friends come back. All of them are flushed and giggling. “Did you see that?” Claire cries, somehow still having enough voice to scream at you. “He pointed at you! Think we can get him to give you a birthday lap dance?”

That is where you draw the line and this you tell them firmly. They all pout and you’re certain that at least one of them is going to disregard your request and see if they can get you a lap dance. It’s not something you want so you excuse yourself from them, claiming that you need to go out for a smoke.

You are surprised to find the little covered smoking porch to be deserted, but take it as a boon. Walking to the edge, you lean against the railing and sigh. It’s nice out here and you relax a bit until you hear something rustling below you.

Then, there are breaths, and two groaning voices, followed by wet smacking sounds. At first you’re scandalized that you would inadvertently encounter two hidden lovers. That is when you hear the voice.

It’s strange to hear the waiter’s voice without the thrumming base behind it, but you recognize it as his all the same. Now he has a rolling accent that doesn’t quite sound intentional, but not quite natural either.

“Fuck,” he says and another voice shushes him.

You’re about to walk back in when you catch sight of them through a narrow gap in the floorboards. Or rather, you see the “cowboy” from the stage, who had pressed the waiter back against the dirty wall of the back alley.

Surprised, you press your hands to your lips and freeze, hoping that they haven’t noticed you. Or hoping that they had and will at least allow you the opportunity to creep back inside without hearing more of their...shenanigans.

No such luck; the waiter groans like it was ripped out of his throat and through the tiny gap in the floorboards, you see the performer slide to his knees, ignoring the dirty puddles and fallen cigarette butts.

“Be quiet,” the performer says. “Or someone will hear.”

So they didn’t know you were there. Small miracles at least, but given the age of the wood of the deck, you didn’t want to risk moving and drawing their attention. But then, neither of them were looking up at you, too lost in their own little world.

Paralyzed by indecision, you press your hands tighter to your mouth as you hear the clear sound of a zipper being undone. It’s no difficult thing to imagine what is happening below you, not with clear signs like that.

You can hear wet sounds, the click of the performer’s throat, and the throaty moan of the waiter in stereo. “Fuck, baby.”

There are more sounds, garbled promises and curses; sounds of the performer’s mouth doing unspeakable things. Then you heard, “fuck, I need you” and you seriously debated moving, creaky floorboards be damned.

Below you, you can hear the sounds of clothing being undone and falling with little _thump_ s and splashes as they land in the dirty water of the alley. Then you hear, again in stereo, “were you expecting this?”

“Hoping,” the waiter says. “Hurry up.”

Then, there’s a little _pop_ and you don’t hear their voices anymore. At least, not the hushed whispers they share; you do, very clearly, hear their loud groans as they fuck in the dirty, dark alleyway between a male strip club and a Chinese restaurant. At the height you’re standing at, on the smokers’ balcony, the smell is faint but ripe. If you were actually a smoker, it probably wouldn’t be noticeable over the smell of your own smoke, but sadly (in this case) you had kicked that habit a long time ago.

You can still hear them, though. Sooner or later they’ll be caught by someone listening to the pleased groans and moans and the sound of a belt buckle scraping against the walls. On the plus side, the sound of their... _fucking_...covers the low creaks of the floorboards and you hastily retreat into the strip club.

All told, you spend another hour or so there, and try not to grimace (or smirk) when you see the waiter eventually come back. His belt buckle looks like it had seen better days and there were red marks visible beneath his vest, which now hangs crooked and wrinkled on him. Not to mention, he's walking with a slight limp that he hadn't had earlier.

Eventually, your group decides to leave and you step away to call a cab. As you get into the backseat, the driver turns back around and winks at you. “Have a good night?”

You make a face and he laughs. “They at least had some good liquor.”

“Hear anything worth hearing?”

Again, you make a face. “Just two idiots making eyes at each other. And I heard far too much about that, thank you.”

“Disappointing,” your driver teases. “Were you caught?”

You snort. “The bug was planted, it just fell in a puddle while they were getting frisky in an alley.”

The driver makes an exaggerated gagging noise. “Two of the world’s most deadliest assassins? Fucking like rabbits?”

“Like _something_ ,” you mutter. “But I think it’s safe to say that Overwatch is onto us, if they’re sending two of their best agents out here to investigate.”

“Well, _you_ get to explain that to the Reaper,” the driver tells you with a smirk. “Your failure is not _my_ problem.”

You shake your head and prepare to make your report via holoscreen to the Reaper. As the feed begins to connect, all you can think of is the waiter and his new lover. Hanzo Shimada and Jesse McCree, two of the world’s deadliest assassins, and yet they couldn’t even notice that they were pining for each other.

What idiots.

Still, you are smiling as the call connected: you like happy endings, even if they’re not _your_ happy ending.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also yell at me for this travesty over on Twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus).
> 
> ~DC


End file.
